The first night of the play I took Rosalie to a box, and she would have Veronique with her.  M. de Grimaldi did not leave her for a moment.  The play was praised to the skies; the large theatre was full of the best people in Genoa.  The actors surpassed themselves, though they had no prompter, and were loudly applauded.  The piece ran five nights and was performed to full houses.  Rossi, hoping perhaps that I would make him a present of another play, asked my leave to give my lady a superb pelisse of lynx-fur, which pleased her immensely.

I would have done anything to spare my sweetheart the least anxiety, and yet from my want of thought I contrived to vex her.  I should never have forgiven myself if Providence had not ordained that I should be the cause of her final happiness.

“I have reason to suspect,” she said one day, “that I am with child, and I am enchanted at the thought of giving you a dear pledge of my love.”

“If it comes at such a time it will be mine, and I assure you I shall love it dearly.”

“And if it comes two or three weeks sooner you will not be sure that you are the parent?”

“Not quite sure; but I shall love it just as well, and look upon it as my child as well as yours.”

“I am sure you must be the father.  It is impossible the child can be Petri’s, who only knew me once, and then very imperfectly, whilst you and I have lived in tender love for so long a time.”

She wept hot tears.

“Calm yourself, dearest, I implore you!  You are right; it cannot be Petri’s child.  You know I love you, and I cannot doubt that you are with child by me and by me alone.  If you give me a baby as pretty as yourself, it will be mine indeed.  Calm yourself.”

“How can I be calm when you can have such a suspicion?”

We said no more about it; but in spite of my tenderness, my caresses, and all the trifling cares which bear witness to love, she was often sad and thoughtful.  How many times I reproached myself bitterly for having let out my silly calculations.

A few days later she gave me a sealed letter, saying,—­

“The servant has given me this letter when you were away.  I am offended by his doing so, and I want you to avenge me.”

I called the man, and said,—­

“Where did you get this letter?”

“From a young man, who is unknown to me.  He gave me a crown, and begged me to give the letter to the lady without your seeing me, and he promised to give me two crowns more if I brought him a reply tomorrow.  I did not think I was doing wrong, sir, as the lady was at perfect liberty to tell you.”

“That’s all very well, but you must go, as the lady, who gave me the letter unopened, as you can see for yourself, is offended with you.”

I called Le Duc, who paid the man and sent him away.  I opened the letter, and found it to be from Petri.  Rosalie left my side, not wishing to read the contents.  The letter ran as follows: